Peter and the Wolf
by WillowDryad
Summary: Peter would give his life for Edmund, but he's helpless against the poison of a werewolf's bite. Is he beyond even Aslan's help? ***EXPANDED EDITION*** Golden Age. No slash.
1. Peter

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

PETER

"Peter, don't! Don't, I'm begging you!"

Still panting from the struggle, Peter pulled tighter on the rope binding his brother's wrists and then knotted it. Edmund lay in the trampled grass trembling, his dark eyes wide with helpless fear.

"Peter, please. Don't do this. You can't do this."

Half choked with tears, Peter turned his face away. Two or twenty-two, Edmund was his brother. His baby brother.

"I have to, Ed. You know I have to. It's almost moonrise, and it'd be too late after– after–" He broke off, scrubbing his eyes with his fists. "I tried– I was trying to kill it before it could get to you. It was too fast for me. And now– Don't hate me, Ed. I tried, and now it's too late."

"Peter, it's not too late. Let me go." Edmund held up his hands, the bonds forcing the palms together in a semblance of prayer. "Let me go, and we'll get help. Somewhere there must be a cure. It hasn't been that long, and it was just one bite."

"It _is_ too late!" Peter grabbed him by the shoulders, dragging him into a sitting position, shaking him. "There's no such thing as _just one bite_! One bite or fifty, once it's in the blood, it's too late!"

"No, we can–"

"It was a werewolf, Ed." Peter spat the words through clenched teeth. "A werewolf. We both know what that means."

Peter glanced at the sickening heap of fur and blood and death-stench that lay still warm only a few feet away, Rhindon buried to the hilt in its belly. Killed, but at a terrible price.

Edmund looked at it, too. Looked at it and then back at Peter, his eyes dark and pleading. Disbelieving. Shattered.

"Pete . . ."

"Don't." Again Peter turned his face away, feeling something crushing and tearing the heart out of him. "Don't, Ed. Don't."

Edmund drew his knees up to his chest and rested his forehead and his bound hands on top of them. Slight and shaking. Helpless baby brother.

Peter feathered one trembling hand through the dark hair. "Ed–"

With a cry, Edmund flung himself forward, driving his shoulder into Peter's chest, knocking the air out of him. They were both tested and proven warriors and kings, but Edmund was still the lighter of the two, and it served him well now. He scrambled up and bolted towards the trees, but Peter was on him in an instant, tackling him at the knees, slamming him onto the unforgiving ground.

Edmund thrashed against him. "You can't do this! Not to me! Peter, not to me!"

Steeling himself, Peter seized his brother by the ankles and dragged him back into the center of the clearing, back near the site of the kill, near that thing that also had once been a man. Quick and efficient, he cut one end off the rope that bound Edmund's wrists and used it to secure his ankles as well. Then he once more sat his brother up.

"Oh, Peter, please," Edmund breathed, helpless, hopeless, the fear in his eyes now terror. "Pete–"

The word was choked into nothingness, and Peter crushed Edmund to him, pressing his lips to the dark hair as his tears fell into it.

"Ed. Eddie. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'd do anything to make this stop, but I can't. It's too late. There's no cure, and I have to do it. Don't hate me."

He felt tears soaking into his shirt and his brother's silent sobs.

"Shh," Peter whispered, stroking his hair once again. "It has to be this way. You know it does. I can't lose you. I can't let you get away from me. I love you, Eddie. You know that, right? You have to know that. If I could make it be some other way–"

His throat closed around the words. He could feel his brother trembling in his arms, helpless to stop the change they both knew was coming.

"Whatever happens, Eddie, I won't let you go."

Above them, the heartless moon broke the clouds and turned them pale and silver under its light.

And when the sun rose and he was a man again, Peter wiped brother's blood from his mouth and wept.


	2. The Wolf

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

THE WOLF

Peter was running. Running. Running. Running. He didn't know where. He didn't know how. He knew he was running. Sometimes on two legs. Sometimes on four. He was running. Running from? Running to? He didn't know. He was running.

Two things he did know: He knew the taste of blood. And he knew the lust for more.

He was hot. Fur was hot. Bite-poisoned blood was hot. Running was hot. Struggling was hot.

He had struggled, struggled so hard, so desperately hard. But struggling hadn't helped. It hadn't kept him from doing what he had done. He hadn't wanted to, but he had done it. He had– No, he couldn't remember that. Couldn't, couldn't remember that. He wouldn't. He would run. He would run and not remember.

He wouldn't remember dark eyes pleading, begging, and then somehow forgiving. The forgiving, that was the worst part. A beast, an uncontrollable monster, didn't deserve to be forgiven. But just as the moonlight had spilled over them, just before Peter's mind had been ripped from him and everything turned dark and bloody, Edmund had lifted those expressive eyes to him, those sable eyes that had always pierced right through him, heart and soul.

"Peter."

It was all he had said, but that had said everything. Fear. Forgiveness. Love. And then Peter had–

No. He wouldn't remember. He would run. He would run.

_Run._

_Run._

So hot. So tired. Had to run. Thirsty. So thirsty. Thirsty for pure water. Thirsty for blood. For brother's blood.

_No, don't remember. Run._

Run where? Home.

Cair Paravel.

No. Not there. Not there. Wasn't what he had done already enough to destroy him? Was he not already destroyed? Peter, the High King, the Magnificent, was gone and could never come back. He had tasted blood, brother's blood. Reveled in it. Lusted for more. No, he couldn't go home. He could only run.

Run from? Run to? He didn't know. Just run.

Soon he was aware of the sound of something else running through the misty forest behind him. He could hear the pounding footfalls and the deep breathing, and he forced his own legs to move more quickly. But as his speed increased, so did the speed of the other, faster and faster until Peter was certain his lungs and heart would burst with trying to outpace it.

Then a new thought came to him. Whatever this terrible creature was, if it was pursuing him, it probably knew it was stronger than he was. Perhaps it was something that could kill him with a blow of its claws or a snap of its jaws. Yes, perhaps it could. Perhaps it would. Perhaps it should. Oh, mercy–

He turned from his running and stood panting on the murky pathway, waiting for it. Hot and matted with blood and sweat and filth, waiting for it. Eyes burning, waiting for it. Waiting for it to materialize out of the mist. There at last he saw the huge shape, dim and gray in the half-light, a beast, a thing of claws and teeth and terrible roaring, and he fell to his knees where he stood, head down, waiting for it. Waiting for death.

"Peter."

Startled, Peter looked up into the face of the Great Lion.

"No," he moaned, burying his head in his arms, hiding himself from those golden eyes. "No. No."

"Peter," Aslan said again, His voice rich and gentle, the only sweetness in this dark place. "Peter, Beloved, why do you run from Me?"

"Don't look at me. You mustn't look at me."

"Dear Son, why not?"

Was it not painfully clear? He was a thing of filth and blood and death and shame, and would the Lord of Glory look on him?

"Please," he begged, sobbing. "Don't. You don't know what I've done. What I am."

"Don't I?"

"But Edmund– He's–"

"Nothing can separate you or him from Me. But all things, all lives, have their time. Nothing you did or could have done can change that."

"But Edmund– I– I–"

It was too terrible to say. Too terrible to think. Edmund–

Peter's head dropped to his knees, and again he was wracked with sobs.

The Lion breathed gently on him. "Peter, Dear Son, tell Me, did you hate your brother?"

Peter looked up at Him, bewildered. "No. Oh, Aslan, no. You know how much I loved him. You know what he meant– No."

"And did you wish his death?"

Tears streaming down his face, Peter shook his head.

"And what, Dear One, would you have done to prevent it?"

"I– I–" Peter's sobs turned into a faint, incredulous laugh. It was the most obvious thing of all. "Anything. Everything. I would have died instead."

The Great Lion nodded. "And did you, Beloved, choose to be bitten? Did you choose the poison in your blood?"

"I was–" One more, the sobs shook him. "I was trying to keep _him_ from being bitten. The– the werewolf– I was too slow."

"Then, having done all you possibly could, how can you fault yourself?"

Again he crumpled at the Lion's feet. wrenched with weeping. "I– I was the one–"

Still he could not say the words. Still his battered spirit and tortured mind howled them back at him_. I was the one who tore out his throat and ripped open his heart! I was the one who savaged his flesh and snapped his bones! I was the one who reveled in the taste of his blood! I was the one! I was the one!_

"I was the one," he whispered.

"And why, Child, in your need, did you not call on Me?"

Peter covered his face with his hands and then twisted his fingers into fists, beating them in a slow, steady rhythm against his forehead. "I don't know. I don't know. I couldn't think. I couldn't do anything except– except– except what I was forced to do. Except what I did. To him. I couldn't stop it. I don't know."

The Lion pressed closer to him, nuzzling gently between Peter's forehead and his pounding fists, taking the blows Himself.

"And why, Beloved Son, do you not call on Me now?"

The blows stopped.

Peter reached up his arms to cling to the Lion's neck, his fists filled with the tawny mane and his tears soaking the velvet fur. "I don't– I can't– Oh, Aslan, please. I need– I need–"

"Is there any need so great you cannot bring it to Me?"

"Please. Please, Aslan." Peter strained closer, as close as he could get. "I need You."

And somehow he found himself floating in a pool of water, living water that eased the burning in his flesh, water that soothed body, mind and spirit, water that washed away the sweat and the filth and the stench that clung to him. At last he stepped out of it, pure and clean, free from poison and pain and the foulness in his blood.

He sank down helpless at the feet of the Lion, wrung out and still, only just able to lift his head.

"But Edmund–"

"Peace, Peter. Dear One, peace. Your brother is forever in My keeping. Let that be enough." Again the Lion breathed sweetly upon him. "Peace. Peace."

There in the darkness, Peter's weary eyes closed, and in his sleep, there was peace.

OOOOO

"Your Majesty?"

Peter flinched at the familiar voice, the voice that had so often barked orders at him on the training grounds or yanked him from a deep sleep before dawn on the day of a battle. Now, though, that voice was as gentle as he had ever heard it.

"Your Majesty."

Peter opened his eyes only slightly, wincing as the first light of dawn hit him.

"Drink." Oreius held a wooden cup to Peter's lips, concern lining his angular face. "All is well now. Drink."

Peter took a few sips of cool water. Then, blinking, still dazed, he looked around the unfamiliar clearing and at the heavy bandaging on his left arm and shoulder. Finally he pushed away the cloying furs and blankets that covered him and sat up.

"Where is this?"

"You ought to rest, Your Majesty," Oreius said. "We're not far from where you were attacked, but we're safe here. The guard is keeping watch."

"But, Edmund–"

Peter followed Oreius's glance to the foot of a nearby tree. There, on a thick pile of blankets, they had laid out Edmund's body.

Grief pooled in Peter's eyes. _Edmund._

"Please, Your Majesty. He's–"

Before the centaur could stop him, Peter struggled to his feet and went to his brother. Edmund had always been too pale, but now his face was white as parchment, his hair and lashes black as ink against it. Whoever had tended to him had washed away every trace of blood. The blanket that covered him was pulled up to his chin, so Peter didn't have to see his gaping chest, his torn throat . . .

_Edmund._

There was a look of perfect peace on his face. He might have only been asleep.

_Your brother is forever in My keeping._

Aslan's country.

_Oh, Edmund._

"Your Majesty," Oreius began again, holding Peter back, "I beg you, please, he's–"

Peter shrugged out of his grasp and fell to his knees at his brother's side.

"Edmund," he whispered. "Edmund."

Then, with a low cry, he scooped Edmund's limp body into his arms and pressed his lips to his cold cheek.

No, wait.

His cheek wasn't cold, and his body was no longer limp. He was struggling vaguely, trying to get back to his bed.

"Lemme sleep, will you?"

Finally he opened his eyes, and the squirming stopped.

"Peter. You're awake."

He smiled through a yawn, and something between a laugh and a sob escaped Peter's throat.

"_I'm_ awake? You–"

"I was trying to tell you, Majesty" Oreius said. "King Edmund had only just fallen asleep, and you should have probably let him have his rest."

"Edmund, you–"

Peter snatched the blanket off of him, looking him over from head to foot, pressing one hand over his heart and then against the curve of his throat.

Whole.

From head to foot, he was whole. _Oh, Aslan! Aslan!_

"What are you doing, Pete?" Edmund put his palm to Peter's forehead. "You aren't delirious again, are you?"

Peter could only look at him stupidly. "Delirious?"

"That wolf got you pretty good,." Edmund said. "You killed it, but not before it tore into your shoulder there. You shouldn't have gotten in between it and me."

"Wolf?" Peter grabbed him by the shoulders, his eyes spilling over tears. "Just an ordinary wolf?"

"Big, nasty brute, a leftover from the Witch's time, but, yes, just an ordinary wolf. The bite was bad. You've been out for three days."

"King Edmund wouldn't sleep until your fever broke and you were out of danger," Oreius added.

Edmund gave Peter a rather unconvincing scowl. "So if you're all right, then, I'd like to get back to–"

Whatever else he might have said was smothered against Peter's shoulder.

And when the sun rose and his brother was asleep again, Peter gave thanks and wept.


	3. Epllogue

****Due to popular demand (okay, actually because AlwaysABrandNewDay asked so nicely for "another chapter where Peter tells Edmund what happened in his delusions"), here's "Peter and the Wolf – The Extended Edition." Enjoy!****

* * *

><p><strong>Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me.<strong>

EPILOGUE

"Lemme sleep, will you?"

I struggled drowsily against whoever was trying to pull me out of my makeshift bed, out of my far-too-brief sleep. Granted, it wasn't a very comfortable bed, just some blankets piled beneath an oak tree, but at this point even the bare ground would have felt like a luxury.

I was so dazed with sleep, it took me a few seconds to realize my tormentor was nearly crushing me in a hug, almost smothering me against his shoulder. It could only be–

"Peter." I blinked at him in the early-morning light. "You're awake."

I yawned, smiling to see that his blue eyes were clear and there was no longer any trace of the fevered wildness that had terrified me for three whole days.

His lips trembled into a bewildered smile, and he made a kind of hiccoughing sound. "_I'm_ awake? You–"

"I was trying to tell you, Majesty," Oreius said. "King Edmund had only just fallen asleep, and you should have probably let him have his rest."

"Edmund, you–"

Peter flung my blanket aside, frantic, searching for something he dreaded to find, something he felt certain he _would_ find. He put his hand to my heart, pushing hard against it, and then to my throat, holding tight enough to make the blood beat in my ears, the breath shuddering in and out of him as he did, frightening in his intensity.

"What are you doing, Pete? You aren't delirious again, are you?"

I felt his forehead, and my own anxiousness eased somewhat. He may have been just the slightest bit too warm still, but that was more or less to be expected after he'd been so sick. The worst was over, but obviously the fever had left him more than a little confused.

He only stared at me, still trembling. "Delirious?"

"That wolf got you pretty good." I hated the awful memory of it. "You killed it, but not before it tore into your shoulder there. You shouldn't have gotten in between it and me."

"Wolf? Just an ordinary wolf?"

His fingers dug into my shoulders, making me flinch a little.

"Big, nasty brute, a leftover from the Witch's time, but, yes, just an ordinary wolf." My throat tightened at the tears that ran down his pale cheeks, tears I didn't understand. "The bite was bad. You've been out for three days."

"King Edmund wouldn't sleep until your fever broke and you were out of danger," Oreius told him, and I wished he hadn't said it. Peter was looking unsteady enough as it was.

"So if you're all right, then," I said, scowling a little, hoping to make him smile, "I'd like to get back to–"

Again I was half-smothered in his embrace, shaken with his sobbing, still not understanding.

"Peter," I murmured, managing to get my arms around him. "Peter, what is it? You're all right now."

"_You're_ all right," he choked out. "_You're_ all right. You're_ all right_."

He had one hand twisted into the back of my hair, crushing me against him as he pressed his lips to the side of my head, holding me there almost bruisingly tight. Finally I pushed against him, and he loosened his hold enough for me to look up at him.

"Peter." I caught his face in both hands, my eyes fixed on his. "Peter, listen to me. Listen."

He looked at me, trembling and blinking back more tears. Then, with a great shuddering release of breath, he stilled, sagging a little where he still knelt, utter exhaustion in every line of him and again that bewildered smile on his lips. I still cupped his face in my hands.

"I'm all right, Peter." I made the words slow and distinct, not sure he was really hearing me. "I got a little bruised up when you shoved me away from the wolf, but I'm all right. Why wouldn't I be? You were the one who was bitten."

"And you were the one who was dead."

I could only gape at him.

"Dead?"

He took hold of my wrists, trembling once more. "And I– I–" He squeezed his eyes shut and more tears spilled down his face. "Oh, Edmund, I was the one who killed you."

"Peter." This time I was the one hugging him close, holding his head against my shoulder. "Peter, Peter, it's all right. It was a nightmare. It was just a nightmare."

"It was s-so real." He clung to me more tightly. "So real. I can never forget it. I can never forget what I did. What I was."

"What you were?"

"A werewolf, Ed." He wiped his sleeve across his eyes and then across the sweat on his upper lip. "I was a werewolf, and I killed you. I tore–" Again he pressed his hand against my heart and then my throat. "I t-tore you to pieces."

His chest was heaving, and I was afraid he would be sick. Thinking of what it would be like to have the same nightmare about him, I was afraid _I _would be sick.

I put my hand over his, holding it there at my throat so he could feel the breath and blood still in me. He seemed to calm a little at that and finally let me go.

I leaned back against the oak tree and pulled him over beside me. We sat there for the longest time, barely touched with the light of the new day. Oreius was now nowhere in sight, evidently making himself useful elsewhere.

"I was helpless," Peter said at last, his voice small and broken. "You– you begged me not to, and I did it anyway. You were begging me, begging and pleading, and I had to do it. I couldn't do anything else."

I looked at him, but his eyes were squeezed shut. His fists were clenched, one of them pounding the ground between us. I put my hand over his and pressed it down, holding it still.

"Then you were gone, and Aslan– He wasn't there. I couldn't even think of Him. It was like He had never even existed." He tried to pound his fist again. Again, I held it still.

"Then I was alone. So alone. Alone with myself. Alone with what I had done." The words spilled out of him faster and faster now. "All I could do was run and run and run until I was sick with it. Sick with the stench and the sweat and the blood and the knowing that I had–" He stopped himself and then went on a little more deliberately. "I heard something running along with me. No matter how I tried, it wouldn't leave me. It kept coming until I couldn't run anymore. I just waited for it to come for me. I could hear it breathing. I knew it had teeth and claws and could kill me with a blow. Eddie, I _wanted_ it to kill me."

I squeezed his hand and let him go on. This would haunt him until he got it all out.

"Then I realized–" He looked at me, smiling a little now, tears again in his eyes, but a different sort of tears. "I realized it was Him."

"Aslan?"

"He– He didn't care how filthy I was, inside and out. He didn't care what I'd done. He still came after me. He still wanted me. He still– Somehow, He still loved me."

Now my eyes were wet again. Oh, how I knew the wonder and the glory of that feeling.

"And then–" Peter shook his head in amazement. "I don't know how, but I was clean again. Clean and whole."

"What did He say to you?" Even knowing how horrific this nightmare must have been, I couldn't help envying him just the slightest bit now. He'd been with Aslan.

He shrugged. "I don't remember everything, but I remember this most: He said, 'Your brother is forever in My keeping. Let that be enough.'"

I nodded, for a moment too choked to speak. Then I drew a hard breath and nodded again.

"Let it be enough, Peter. You've got to trust Him with me. And I've got to trust Him with you. Whatever happens to us, nothing can take us from Him. And if we can't be separated from Him, we can't be separated from each other."

"I know." He smiled again, steadier now, and pulled me over to him, this time his arm only lightly around me. "I do know."

I yawned against his chest and then laughed a little. "Sorry about that. I guess I'm still pretty tired. And you should get some rest. After all that's happened."

He shook his head, still smiling but wary, too. "After all that's happened, I think I'll pass on dreams for a while. But you ought to sleep."

I started to lie back down on my blankets, but he held me where I was.

"Just– just don't go anywhere, Eddie, all right?"

I gave him a little bit of a grin and closed my eyes, nestling closer to him, feeling him brush a kiss against my hair. The bark of the tree was rough against my back, and there was a root or a branch or something under my leg, digging into me, but I stayed right where I was. I didn't want to be anywhere else.

And when the sun rose, I was asleep again, my last memory the sound of Peter's voice, broken and yet whole once more, as he offered up grateful prayers and wept.


End file.
